Bellatrix dies
by Artie.freaking.Abrams
Summary: Bellatrix is caught off guard when revenge is taken on her for killing Sirius Black.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Monday

Bellatrix Lestrange awoke with a strange feeling on the top of her head, which was sore and matted with a tangle of black hair. She realized as soon as she sat up that it was her cat, Hermes.

"HERMES! STOP IT! AND FOR GOD'S SAKE, YOU ARE RUINNING MY NEW BLOWOUT!" Bellatrix shook the disgruntled cat off and stroked her tresses lovingly, unaware of their true ugliness.

"Looks like someone is in a bad mood today," Hermes said. "What happened to you? Who tooted in your face?" Thrilled with his own cleverness, the talking cat mimed a fart, complete with sound effects. Bellatrix winced.

"You did," She said. "Now be good. Don't scratch my new curtains, and don't try to get on top of the refrigerator. I just started storing some Wizardbars up there, and they are much too expensive to be crushed by your paws."

"Alright, alright. Not that I agree with any of these extravagant and frivolous playthings," Hermes grunted. "Diet snacks, for the healthy wizard. Well, I never… In all my days, I never came across a less appealing little piece of…" He muttered as he ambled down the hall, out the open door. His voice disappeared around the corner, but his heavy pawsteps could still be heard.

He's getting old, Bellatrix thought. She would have of course apologized to him, if he came back, but she had to leave in a few minutes. And looking down at her broom, which lay across the foot of the bed, Bellatrix new she would have to get out the polishing cloth to make it look at least a bit presentable. As she wandered down the stairs, forcing herself to concentrate on the steps without falling asleep, Bellatrix wondered once again why she was feeling so tired lately. Could it be the lack of coffee or chocolate? Voldemort had ordered a ban on both for all of the deatheaters, because of some perverse and ridiculous article he had read in Deatheater Everyday: A fun and easy way to make yourself evil! Which was the group's magazine. Stupid Lucius Malfoy. He hardly knew how to say a good old-fashioned torture spell, and now he went around writing deatheater freaking _magazine articles_? Bellatrix laughed ruefully to herself, and polished her broom, lost in thought. The whole thing was, in truth, ridiculous.

So she was happy now, ok? Bellatrix had dominated! Killed her own kin, in cold blood! The very height of moral greatness and leadership! She had been giddy with the joy of it all. This should bump her up a bit in the ranks, shouldn't it? I mean like, she was the first to kill… one of… Harry's… friends…

Bellatrix nodded off.

A minute later, she woke up.

"MURDEROUS SABER!" She looked at her watch again, and was nearly blown to the opposite wall in her own surprise and fury. Then she realized, with quick dismay, that Hermes was slinking back up the stairs with a chagrined expression on his face. Inside herself, Bellatrix cringed.

"I mean, see you later…" She trailed off, realizing how feeble she sounded.

"I'm sorry, Hermes, ok? I am just really stressed out right now." Bellatrix was about to reach down and pat her cat, her hand poised above him, but when he growled she thought better of it.

"I uh, um… um… I've gotta go! See you soon!" Bellatrix leaped up off the stairs and raced to the door, so frazzled that she did not notice Hermes' wary eyes trailing behind her. She also did not notice when he slunk back after her, following her to the door.

Nor did Bellatrix notice his eyes as he watched her take off from the patio, which were piercing and full of hate.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The will reading was set in the New Church of Cambridge, England. Bellatrix had contemplated not showing up, but realized that ay muggles who were present at Sirius' reading would begin to suspect foul play. And as Voldemort had already told her, it was important to keep your head down and behave without any measure of disgust for those who were your opponents it this time, even if your true feelings were otherwise.

Needless to say, Bellatrix had thought thoroughly through all of her actions which would take place in the church, and she knew the consequences of letting anyone, especially Harry Potter, see her face. As she drove, Bellatrix pulled a long scarf and hood over her head, smothering her newly done hair with some chagrin. Keeping one hand on the wheel, she pulled down both her sleeves and successfully hid the dark tattoo on her forearm. The radio was turned on loud, and it masked any other noise besides the awkward ticking of the watch on her wrist. Bellatrix made a vow to turn the watch off before she set foot in the church, for fear that it would ruin her disguise. She reached into her glove compartment when her stomach growled, and pulled a bag of gummy worms onto the passenger seat.

About half an hour and a quarter of a bag of gummy candy later, Bellatrix's stomach was satisfied as she turned into the church parking lot. She turned off the radio and then took the key out of the ignition. She felt an emptiness in the place of the loud, pulsing music. And then she felt something else.

It was a scratching noise in the back of her seat.

Immediately, Bellatrix's survival instincts leapt into gear; she had been waiting for this moment! Bellatrix shot her arm around the seat, searching for the perpetrator. She came up with nothing, only a bit of cat hair which Hermes had probably coughed up after his last visit to the vet. Still, Bellatrix was uneasy and restarted the car. After the engine was revved, she drove a few frantic rounds about the parking lot, and when a startled squeal was heard, she was satisfied. Bellatrix listened for any more noise, turned into another parking spot, and turned off the engine.

She walked into the church with an unassuming smile on her face, a black shadow trailing behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

"….And as you can see here, in the fine print, Mrs. Morbidnee, Mr. Black has not left any funds to his immediate cousins or nephews… We can have you listed for inspection, private, of course…"

Halfway through the will reading, and Bellatrix was already half – asleep, with her eyes straining against the temptation to shut themselves against the bright lights. As the minister and church event – handler tried to make a woman, who had apparently not been listed in Sirius' will, see reason as to not file a law suit against the church ("you see," he had said, "Mr. Black had no contact with us when he wrote this will"), the crowd milled about and looked bored out of their minds. Bellatrix, who was not normally a sympathetic person, could sympathize.

Her watched counted the seconds as if they were minutes, and the minutes as if they were hours. Bellatrix was acutely aware of how her tattoo ached on her arm… She must have made an unconscious call to the Dark Lord yesterday…

Wait, _wait_! Her tattoo… on her arm… was aching? Not aching, actually, but burning.

Wait. Her tattoo was burning?

Ok, Bellatrix told her self. Whatever happens, don't panic. _Don't panic._ Just because your tattoo hurts does not mean a fellow deatheater is here, or near here. Well it does, actually, but still…

Bellatrix stood up suddenly, unsteadily. She realized a second too late that this would attract unwanted attention, and tried to sit down again, but fell flat on her but. Wait – that was actually _better_! She let her cheek rest for a blissful moment against the cool, smooth marble tile. She did not notice the voices until they were too near.

"Ma'am, have you been drinking?"

"Of course she's been drinking, Wallace, the question to ask her is how much alcohol has she consumed!"

"Oh, I doubt she'd even remember _that_. But very well." The same voice as before was closer now. Bellatrix felt someone's breath down her back, stale and like black coffee. She flinched away from it.

"She moves! Oh, Wally, I was afraid she'd be passed out by now!" The second voice, high and girlish, leaned in as well. Bellatrix vaguely knew that she should wake up, but she was to far gone. Why was she caving in so easily; did she drink something unusual last night? Did she need an aspirin? Aware that these feeble answers would not get her anywhere, Bellatrix raised her head; this was a great mistake. Two pairs of hands, one rough and one slippery, caught her by the hair and dragged her back from beneath the pew under which she had been trying to hide.

"Ma'am, look at me. _Look at me!_ Have you been drinking?"

"Uuuuuh…" Bellatrix's cheeks turned red. This seemed only to encourage the two people, who she would later know to be police officers.

A small crowd had gathered. They stared in silence for the most part, but then a small accusation rang out. Small, but lethal.

"Hey, mom – isn't that the lady that we saw on the _wanted for murder and other serious felonies_ poster?"

"No, honey, although I must say, she does look similar. We really must be respectful, after all, these nice people have all suffered a terrible loss…"

These were just bystanders, but they set the claims growing like brushfire. It was almost too much to bear.

"Hey, that _is_ the girl on the _wanted_ poster!"

"I saw her yesterday, she was going into the woods! The woods where the murder happened!"

The Bleaker Woods? Those are the ones that the black – masked gang was seen in on Friday!"

Bellatrix wanted to lash out. She knew that she could take all these people out with one blow; she was smarter, and faster. She knew that it had been a stupid idea to come to the funeral in the first place – it was a public gathering. She just hadn't been able to resist the thought of seeing sorrowful looks on so many people's faces, because of _her_! However, whatever murderous thoughts had been brewing in Bellatrix's mind were extinguished when the next group of people joined the crowd.

One of them was screaming, and the rest were trying to get _it_ off of the man's head. _It_ being a big fluffy cat, snarling and biting.

Her cat. Her _Hermes_.

He saw her, and for a moment his yellow eyes looked anything but friendly. Murderous, in fact.

He got a step closer, and leapt for her, claws outstretched.


	4. Chapter 4

Belatrix couldn't help but think that at this moment, if there were a theme song to match her life, it would be one of Bach's most depressing and minor – key orchestral pieces. She could practically hear the violin's staccato chord as Hermes stared at her, slipped, and made that long jump with lethal intentions.

Time seemed to stand still. As her own personal symphony (still imaginary, of course) drifted in and out of her own consciousness, Belatrix ducked and winced in shockingly accurate anticipation of Hermes' claws and blows. She remembered the vet's words when he had checked Hermes for feline HIV before she'd taken him home – _'This one's a fighter. Be careful with him, and if possible, train him and yourself to best avoid injuries, I know it sounds silly, but taking a training class might be the best idea,' _he'd said. Belatrix had, of course, taken no heed to his words. But at this moment she wished that she had.

"Bravo! Bravo!" The crowd cheered as they watched. Although it was almost as if the action was over, seeing as the criminal had been found and caught, many people and groups were keen on seeing the supposed criminal get what she deserved.

'But I'm not a criminal!' Was all Belatrix could think. Then she ate her words. 'At least, not in the way you think I am. I am serving an honorable cause! More honorable than _yours_!'

At once, people stood a little stiffer, and a little more silent than before. The mood of excitement was gone, anger had taken its place. Belatrix realized with much chagrin that she had said the last few words out loud. Even Hermes, who had not even stopped to look at her in between his thwacks, stopped for a moment.

"What was that, young lady?" The male officer said. Belatrix knew immediately that she had to cover.

"My cause is… is… Look," She was stumbling now; if she'd had any hope of getting out of this situation, it was dashed.

"_Aaaih!_" She screeched and tensed at one of Hermes' more vicious attacks, and ten thought better of it, clamping her hand to her mouth. There was no need to tangle this up any further.

"My cause. My cause. My cause…" As Belatrix continued searching for a word, a phrase, or something to help her situation not be fully discovered, the policemen looked as if they'd had enough. The woman, who was apparently a bit stronger than she looked, hauled Belatrix up by the armpits and scooted her towards the door.

All Belatrix wanted, right then, was to say a spell. Something scathing. Something that would certainly show these people who she really was, and how much power she had. It would take seconds; she could turn her situation around! She could escape! But as soon as these thoughts reached a climax, they disintegrated, along with her vision of breaking free of the arms of the police woman. If her magic became known, there would be a monstrous upset, and Voldemort would certainly hear about it. She could have her Dark Wizardry license revoked! Her career as a deatheater would be ruined forever.

The cat screamed behind her, and the male police officer tried (and failed) to hold him still and cram him into a cat carrier. Belatrix wanted to tell him no, that he was her own pet, but did not. It was clear to her that Hermes, if that was truly his name, had been possessed by another force; he was fighting against her, not for her. The friendship was lost. And if he ever thought to come back to her, she would remind him of the mess he had gotten her into.

That is, if she ever got out of it.

Several hours later

The fish tank, as Belatrix called it, was growing old. In several minutes time the officers had escorted her through the office, saying that there was no need for identification; they already knew who she was. She had been lead through multiple hallways and chambers; a bracelet had been put on her wrist, marking her "psychotic and dangerous". Her had been forced into a chemical – smelling band, so that she looked less like a beautiful and respected witch, and more like a normal serial murderer. It was truly horrifying.

As quick as her admission was, the process of organizing her papers, contacting lawyers, and making her an applicant for trail was going to take more than seventy hours; already it had been twenty. And in twenty hours time, Belatrix had taken care to become a seemingly quintessential, and even extremely knowledgeable, felon.

Not that she had any intention of staying long enough for a trial, of course. Belatrix was a master of plots, especially escape plots, and building a desirable persona was only part of her scheme to escape, without using any magic whatsoever. Here in a muggle cell, which was fragile and very spare, the rules of the game were different than those of any other jail she had tried to brake out of. But her needs were different too; Belatrix was desperate. If Voldemort heard about this, and he was likely to do so very soon, she would be as good as dead. So she had to work quickly, and then arrive at the weekly deatheater meeting as if nothing had happened at all.

There was a small voice in Bellatrix's head that said it was impossible; actually, there was a large one. But she had waited, calculated, and planned; and so when the five – o – clock guard came to take his shift, she saw her chance.

The keys, the keys… where were they? In a spark of genius, Belatrix had crafted a magnifying lens out of a curved shard of glass. She was deeply shocked at having to use such primitive methods; however, what must be done, must be done. She now used this lens to see the guards belt, and when she took a few steps closer to the small window, she saw them. The keys, the center of her plot.

Belatrix now took her frog juice out of her pocket; the sensors had not been able to recognize it when she came in, and it was the only scrap of magic she had. She carried one with her every day, and made extra batches every night. Frog juice is an incredibly smelly, gas – rich substance that can knock out an elephant from several meters away; and a human, from a quarter – mile. The guard didn't stand a chance!

Nor did he know what had hit him, of course. There would be just a feeling of slight dizziness, and then the smell would attack him. Coming in through the ears and breathing holes, it would diffuse the guard's consciousness quickly and efficiently.

Belatrix's cell mate, a plump, short woman who was sleeping soundly until that moment, looked around dazedly and quizzically. Then she saw the guard, asleep, and Belatrix, smiling and holding the flask of frog juice in her hand. She looked terrified for one moment, and was out the next.

Now it was time for some heavy – duty muscle work. Belatrix was strong; every summer, deatheaters had to "enjoy" a three – week fitness boot camp with none other than Voldemort himself; or at least they used to, and now it had finally started again. Nevertheless, Belatrix was able to kick through the already – loosened door (courtesy of some spare points of glass and a long, long fingernail) and tear off her chains with ease. After all, who said she had to act like a muggle, or even a normal witch, when there was no one there to watch her? The alarm was easy enough; she just punched through the glass. The bells then rang out like sirens through the corridor, and prisoners and guards alike stared; a few seconds afterwards, they were unconscious. Belatrix was immediately happy that she had taken her monthly frog – juice immunizer. This was a particularly strong batch.

Holding her bleeding fist and muttering charms to it, Belatrix began to run. The corridor was marked in meter – long increments with fluorescent lights, which were safety – ensured with metal cages. As if the people who made the jail thought that the criminals it housed would be savage and stupid enough to try and break a flammable fluorescent light bulb. Belatrix was content, at that moment, to think only that this was the dim – witted imagination of the jail builders, and it would be hours later until she realized that, perhaps, the criminals _were_ just that savage.

Oh well. For now her attention was focused solely on the task of escaping, outrunning those who chased her. Bellatrix was engrossed, and would have hardly noticed anything, least of all a small, grey shadow trailing meters behind her.

After all, who was a small, angry cat to stand up to the great Bellatrix Lestrange?


	5. Chapter 5

5

The air burned.

Not just with the acrid smell of sulfur; no, that was small news. The graveyard where Belatrix and the other deatheaters met was near a sulfur – containing tank, which had leaked years ago. The union crew had never quite cleared the smell out of the place. Anyways, the smell was not even part of it. The root of the problem lay in the fact that the half – open container of frog juice which Belatrix carried as she flew was beginning to get to her. Literally. She realized that she should have read the directions of the immunization device before she tried it; but then again, she had never anticipated being in a situation like this, and it had never been important to her to follow rules. But she was so _powerless_! Still in a muggle district where magic would be immediately punished, and now she was almost certain that the cardboard carton of the immunizer had read "caution: Immunization charm fully circulates blood in two weeks: while effects will last longer than said amount of time, they will wear off without prior notice." It had been two and a half weeks since Belatrix had taken a dose of immunization, and it was showing.

Oh shoot, shoot, _shoot_!

Lingering between feeling sorry for herself, particularly feeling sorry for her aching and thoroughly stink – ified head and channeling her anger into something productive had further worn Belatrix out. She flew obscured by a cloud of _anti – sight serum_ which she had vaporized to look just like a large, very dark, and human – on – a – broom shaped cloud.

Which, she figured, was better than nothing.

However, nothing would have looked wonderful compared to what she saw next.

Belatrix was about to turn a corner, and was looking backwards from time to time, when she nearly fell of her broom in surprise. Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, and then swerved to the side, purely out of instinct. A big, big mistake. The loosing point.

Hermes, one. Belatrix, zero.

The cat had come up behind her, a fiercely demented look in his eyes. Hermes looked as if he had never been owned by anyone in his life. His fur was matted, his back arched almost in a reptilian way. His tail clung to the broom he had somehow snagged, charged with an instant flying spell; Belatrix knew this was her only advantage over him. His broom would eventually have to come down. Unless…

Come to think of it, she herself _had_ performed many, many permanent broom – christening spells in front of the devilish little thing.

And with her luck, he knew how to perform them by himself.

As Belatrix thought, she also watched Hermes. It dawned on her that he might even know how to perform the _spells_ she had performed while he was in the house, most of which were injuring or lethal. Not good, _so _not good!

Belatrix now needed to focus on loosing him from her trail. She knew this city! Her cloud was probably covering the cat; his broom and his body were so short, a simple – sighted muggle would probably not notice them even without cover!  
To add insult to injury, Hermes was trailing her with complete accuracy. In fact, it was almost as if he had learned to fly far before now…

In a flash of brilliance, Belatrix recalled something she had read long, long ago in the library at that school – for – wizard – brats, Hogwarts.

_While many witches and wizards never return to life after dying of magical causes, sometimes, under the proper circumstances, a witch of wizard can return to life in another form, animate (Fauna) or inanimate, (Flora)._

Then, Belatrix recalled something else, equally horrifying, and not from a book.

_"He didn't leave – I felt it!"_

_ "Harry, my boy. Your godfather is dead. It is extremely tragic, and I can fully understand your desperation, but Sirius is not applicable to return to life in another form."_

_ "He – what? __Oh, never mind. He didn't leave, I don't think – he couldn't have! I felt something, Dumbledore, something strange; but not death. He couldn't be gone, if it wasn't death!"_

_ "Hush, Harry…"_

The memory of what Belatrix had heard through the crystal ball (those things are good for some things, you know) continued into a haze, as she blocked it out with the strength of her disghust. Belatrix's conscience wavered, on the brink of collapsing; the impact of carrying the frog juice for so long had just begun to appear, full force. The symptoms were there, full force: Wheezing, disapnea, hysteria…

Blacking… Out…

Belatrix knew she needed to focus, she was no fool. She just _couldn't_. She could barely grip her broom! As her eyes prickled and her vision filled with black and red dots, Belatrix glanced hurriedly behind her. Hermes had, apparently, not in the least lost strength. If anything, his flying was more powerful.

And then…

He was there. _He was there_. For a mere second, all of the damage done to Belatrix's head subsided, replaced by the desire to just _grab_ her wand and _extinguish_ the life in front of her. Her heart pumped double – time, her instincts were ferally sharp. She was no witch now; she was a machine. A proper, soulless deatheater; this, she was proud of.

_If there is one thing I can do_, Belatrix thought, _it is a nice, good cruciatis curse_.

Her shaking wrist was not prepared, and the weight of what slammed into it crushed her for another second. It was enough to knock whatever sense had gotten into her head back out.

She saw _him_ grinning, although his grin was pained, almost tearful. Was it sympathy? She realized later that it wasn't for her, as he motioned with subtlety to Hermes. Well not Hermes, but…

But…

Belatrix reached for her wand, horrified as it spiraled out of the vapor – cloud. Her train of thought was shattered, insubstantial as it had been.

But…

_But…_

Her mind had found what it was looking for. She grappled with it for a second; she knew she did not deserve this. What did she deserve?

In a final fight, Belatrix jerked her broom out of the claws of Hermes. It was futile, and she knew this as she spiraled down, imitating her wand. Harry followed her, with Hermes, dragging her down.

It wasn't Hermes, though, it was her own flesh and blood, Sirius Black.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Hermes leapt onto the rock.

Well, it wasn't really a rock, but a small, compact lump of garbage that had spilled onto the street. When Belatrix had first been dragged here, she had realized just how little about the muggle world she remembered; it had been years since she had even set foot on one of these low, black – paved streets, or traveled by anything but broom or porthole. Times had changed; the sidewalks were narrower, the buildings more heavy – set. And the apartment complexes looked as if they were on steroids.

Different as it was, Belatrix had adopted a sort of indifference toward her surroundings. The entirety of her energy was focused on keeping up a snarling, sharp demeanor; her captors need not know that several minutes ago, she had been on the verge of passing out. Of course – and it was really just her luck – the frog juice supply had dried up just as it had exhausted her immune system, leaving her utterly magicless and totally alone. Belatrix could not even shake the image of her wand, the sleek rowan wand she had bought specially for the event of the deatheater's annual Progress Meeting, snap into a billion odd – shaped little shards on the far – below ground. Oddly enough, that seemed to be just about the same as what had happened to her life.

Harry Potter's emotions were obvious. That was just one of the things Belatrix hated about him: so innocent, naïve, and seemingly weak; yet he had enough power to stop the Dark Lord. Although she really did not want _anyone_ to be able to do this, Belatrix had reasoned (correctly) that, should a witch or wizard have that much power, it should be one of the oldest and grandest, utterly undefeatable. But this Potter boy… Belatrix shook her head. She was still trying to wrap her tired head around it, sixteen years later. Anyhow, right now he was fighting the powerful urge to kill – or seriously injure – her. Belatrix would have laughed, the idea was so far – fetched! The problem was that right now, it so _wasn't_.

"Maple Street – that's where _it_ is! Seriu- Hermes, come on." As Harry choked on his words, knowing that the cat could understand him, no doubt, Belatrix decided to play a little trick.

She grunted. Shuffled her feet.

"You know, Potter, if I were you I wouldn't step so carelessly; little Lilly was always a _clumsy_ girl. You wouldn't want to follow in her footsteps, would you? After all, it was only her that got you all this way… You wouldn't be here now otherwise, Potter, would you?" Belatrix chortled, her rather infamous laugh starting small and then letting loose a series of grand, boisterous peels that went high and ling. They seemed to be like nails on a chalkboard to his ears.

"Now look here Belatrix, you'd better shut your mouth now or I'll-" Harry lost control of himself for a second, a fast and dangerous second. His forearm rippled with tension as he backed Belatrix into the wall of a brick building. All of a sudden she could smell sweat, her sweat – had she ever even sweated before? – and the metallic tang of rotting food almost acutely as if it were _inside_ her. Belatrix squirmed. Trying not to show her slight discomfort at the situation, she let loose another chant; this was not going as planned.

"Potter, you've got a little girlfriend, don't you?" Belatrix's eyes took on a steely glint. "You do want to keep her safe, I'd assume… And you know just how _quickly_ the Dark Lord can swoop in on his enemies if something doesn't go as planned! Haha_haaa_!" Belatrix's self – doubt was immediately drowned by the thrill of doing what she did best; taunting and torturing, with words. Like a cat who played with its prey, she would make her victims squirm, and suffer until their ends. Of course in this case, _she_ was the victim but…

"Shut _it now._" Harry Potter gritted his teeth. It made her almost giddy with joy.

"Oooh, Potter's getting-"

"Shut. Your mouth. NOW!" His voice had reached a feverish pitch. His eyes seemed almost crazed; she still held some triumph over him, but now it was tainted by…. Fear?

No, no, _no_.

"Now, listen to me, Belatrix," Harry spat. "You know I've got a wand, and I can outrun you; I know this city better than _anyone_. And there's nothing any of your little deatheater _pets_ can do about it, it'll be too late, if I kill you right now."

He pressed his wand into her neck.

"You can… You can scream, and try taunt me, but then my goodwill might _just_ be overcome by something _else_." As if to demonstrate, Harry turned quickly and crumpled a fistful of leaves, once green and on a tree, into a lifeless lump of veins. Belatrix made her voice as loud and amused as possible to disguise the shaking in it; he was going to kill her anyway, if she didn't get away, which she would, of course, but… Well, best to act powerful while you can, right?

Right?

She opened her mouth, then closed it, waiting for the right words to come. They did, of course.

"Now Potter, I bet your mother and _father_ would be awfully disappointed to see their little _baby_ being s-"

"AVA-"

For a moment, the air still wrung with his curse. It shivered through Belatrix, in a way she might later describe not as frightening but as _overwhelming_, as if she was being overcome for once by a power she herself could not control. But the force of it was too great; Harry had always been the weak one, she knew, and now, he had shown just how feeble his will was.

She watched his shoulders crumple. Harry looked at her with hate, fierce hate like she had never seen before, and led her on. Well forced her was more like it.

What choice did they have? He knew, and Belatrix knew he knew, and Hermes/Sirius knew that they both knew, the path was his to lead. And at least one of them would be hating it every second.


	7. Chapter 7

"We're almost there… Feel it coming….You?"

Belatrix found it hard to hear, nor did she have any desire to listen to, Harry Potter's endless directions. She was above them; they had both learned that in yersterday's grim confrontation. The thought of it gave Belatrix slight shivers; which was not to say that she did not enjoy the fact, because she so did, it was just… Just… She had never even dreamed, ever at all, that little, innocent Harry Potter would think to threaten her, or anyone. Oh, well.

Anyhow.

"Sorry… Can't hear.. You…" Belatrix made her voice softer – edged than usual, so that it would sound completely authentic. Was it possible that, if Harry knew his words were lost to her in the wind, he would stop annoying her with his endless, glorified, string of babble and angry comments.

Just as Belatrix was about to get her hopes up – and for good reason – Hermes seemed to realize what she was doing. The cat/person uttered a low, long growl from deep in his chest. Even in the blustering weather, it could not be mistaken as anything but feral, and mad.

"Hermes, what is it?" Harry ran backwards toward his little comrade, and whispered in its ear, "What is she doing?" And then, even more softly, "did you get it?"

It?

Even from the distance, and while she had not been able to hear him, Belatrix was a particularly skilled lip reader – how else was she to communicate with Voldemort's dumb cousin, who he forced all the deatheaters to visit? – and Harry, because he was so unassuming, failed miserably to make his mouth unobvious.

It, Belatrix had long ago reasoned, had to be involved with her. I mean, obviously. Every once in a while, Harry glanced at her in a funny way, and once, when she had asked "What do _you_ want, Potter?" He had begun to say something, possibly very revealing of his all – around plot, and then shut his mouth with a large and stunned _clamp_. He really had no tact at all.

I mean, seriously no tact.

Coming back to earth, Belatrix once again tried to think hard. It was difficult as the world was white, bleak, cold and blurred, and the only clothes she wore were a pair of thin jeggings (who knew how _those _had ended up in her closet) and a very thin silk chemise, which clung to her in a most embarrassing and painful way. Already half – damp, the garments, or rather undergarments, did nothing to shield her from the Cambridge winter cold.

And how did she know it was Cambridge which they had been walking toward for so long? Well, it had of course been another of Harry's stupid giveaways! Which was almost insulting, if Belatrix thought of it for long enough. WHich she would now, as she had nothing else to do. And anyways, if she had to be captured, shouldn't she have been captured by a person with at least her same freaking _intelligence_?

Belatrix was so momentarily upswept in her anger, she bit her tongue. Hard.

And then, another flash of brilliance! As the hot, sweet blood welled just under her lip, Belatrix cried out, somewhat over – dramatically. Well, very over – dramatically.

Even Harry, blunt as he was, heard her. And predictably, he let his savage unpleasantness take over himself, and ignored her.

Ok then, time for stage B. Belatrix Coughed hard, and as pain beat against her chest once more (first time – falling on her face) the blood hit the snow without a sound; of course. It felt so good to be doing something she was good at again – example, working up an ingenious and devilishly deceitful plot – that Belatrix vaguely realized she was doing a better job than ever before.

The blood trail was tedious to lay out, and required a lot of excruciating neck – bending, false back pain, and grunts ad groans. Belatrix was up to it, and in fact, was over – eager to perform the old task of carrying something out. And anyhow, she would do anything to escape from her captors; er, captor – and – a - half.

"Arggh! Auf – ooow!" After grunting and moaning in severely over – emphasized pain, Belatrix sat down in the snow. Now this, Harry noticed.

"B-" Realizing that this might be breaking his obvious vow not to call her by name, Harry changed his statement. "Hey, come on!"

"Aaarghhh…" Belatrix let her eyes roll to the back of her head. Meantime, her hands reached into her back pocket for something that her long – dead mother had always forced her to wear, but that she'd never thought she would have to use.

"I said, come _on_. Do you want me to _drag_ you?" Harry Potter's teeth were gritted once again. It made Belatrix absolutely certain her plan was working; and almost doubtful as well, for shouldn't Harry have at least a little bit of suspicion by now? I mean, she had just out – of – the blue started "_vomiting blood_"! Was Harry really that stupid?

Insufferable!

However, several minutes later, Belatrix knew for certain that he was. As Harry advanced toward her, that blasted Hermes on his shoulder, in what he obviously thought was a very menacing expression, Belatrix fumbled in her back pocket, her hands feverishly and quickly searching for that one, little _can_. Eventually she found it.

"Are you coming, or do I have to force you?" Harry leered. And, unable to resist one last jab now that her position was secured, Belatrix responded in a familiar, lilting tone.

"I don't think you'll be forcing me to do anything, Potter." Her eyes gleamed, her arms reappeared from behind her, and a horrified expression came over Harry even before he could realize what she held in her hand, almost as if he had always been anticipating this, never quite believing that he could keep the infamous she – deatheater at bay.

So, _sooo_ satisfying.

"Especially not with _this _in your eyes."

Belatrix had deadly aim, how else had she single – handedly defeated so many meddlesome ministry geeks? And of course, her arm did not fail her now. One spray for the cat – even if it was Serius Black, it weighed significantly less than a person. And then… _Aaaaah_… Four sprays for the boy. No five, just for the Dark Lord's benefit.

A second was all she needed. Harry was temporarily blinded, and Hermes, as well. Belatrix dove, her eyes on the prize.

In another second she was flicking Harry's wand in the air, triumphantly. It felt much heavier and was darker than her old, familiar fox – hair beech one, but it would do.

For now, of course.

When Harry and Hermes opened their eyes, they were too dazed to know what was coming for them. Harry made a valiant effort as usual, diving and lunging, but Belatrix was too fast.

"Stupify!" She screamed.

And then added, just for fun, "and next time, maybe wear thicker glasses."

Moments later she was disappearing into the crowd, just a girl with a long stick and a red can of pepper spray in hand. Smiling to herself, ignorant of what was to come.

Or was she?

Don't worry, everyone! It so does not end this way!


	8. Chapter 8

8

"Order up!"

A waitress' rather nasal voice was heard over the strains of jazz/rock and pop coming from the grainy old radio on the awards shelf. Belatrix leaned over the head in front of her, which was dark with curly, frizzy hair akin to her own, and tried to see if it was her food. She checked her watch; it had been approximately twenty minutes since she ordered. And the service at the diner – called Benny's Bar and Grille – was certainly not up to par.

"One portabello and cheese burger, one tortilla frittata, and a side of fried onions." The waitress came to the table in front of Belatrix's moments later, serving an oversized tray of hot food to the couple, half of which was the frizzy haired girl. Belatrix was ravenous – she'd just escaped her captors of several days! Time to celebrate, the no – carbs diet could wait! – and flagged the waitress down as soon as she had finished wheeling the tray back to the kitchen.

"'scuse me, ma'am. May I help you?" The waitress peered down at Belatrix. Belatrix looked up at her with a long, dangerous smile.

"Hello, I am Belatrix Lauren, and I work for The Daily Critic Magazine." Belatrix changed her name and made up a lofty profession, in one quick, confident stroke. She was _definitely_ back on top of her game. She continued, watching the concerned expression growing on the waitress' face with delight, "I am writing a review for this diner tonight, based on a recommendation from a friend, and it would cost me no effort to tell the magazine that _you_ –" She pointed a long fingernail at the waitress – "and your peers have rather _lousy_ service, if you fail to arrive with my food before I have to head off to my appointment." Belatrix checked her watch once again, and then checked the face of her waitress, which was, appropriately, stunned in place.

"Which is in, say, eight minutes." Belatrix shoved open her purse and handed a small amount of muggle money – why did she have that in her purse? – into the waitress' clammy hand. "Go; and don't come back unless you have my order, please."

Belatrix finished her performance with a winning grin, and then pointedly turned away and flipped open her phone, as if to check for emails. She did not look back up until she heard the waitress' cheap shoes _clackity clacking _into the kitchen. Belatrix reached into her bag once more, this time to put away her phone, and stroked the pepper spray almost lovingly. Would it be her new pet? After all, her old one had lost its marbles, apparently, and she was _always_ in need of company.

Belatrix's food arrived, smelling sweetly of grease and cayenne pepper.

"One vegetarian pizza, with a side of spiced fries." The waitress said, or rather squeaked, and then shuffled hurriedly to the next customer.

Belatrix attacked her pizza, grinning and chewing with as much gusto as she'd had in several years. Ever since Voldemort had disappeared, to be exact…

No, no, she would not think that. Belatrix reminded herself once more that this was time for her, a reward for her own cleverness, and she should hold it while it lasted.

Belatrix continued on with her pizza, and sipped her beer.

She moved on to the fries, pleasantly satiated on junk food.

By the time she'd put down the check, which was well past eight minutes later, as the waitress informed her, Belatrix was so full she could almost… fall… asleep…

And she was about to, but what she saw then stopped her in her tracks.


	9. Chapter 9

9

Harry knew how to count by twos and tie his shoes. He had read every Jack and Annie's Magic Treehouse book (and there are too many of those, so its saying a lot).

However, one thing he did not know how to do was keep track of a human/godfather/cat and well, just _track_ a deranged and murderous deatheater witch through the wilds of Cambridge, England. He was stressed, and it showed; even with his senses dulled by recent death and the shock of his transformation, Serius had said one morning as they were eating breakfast, that Harry had suddenly begun to be dry; not his usual "blithe self" as the old cat had put it. The conversation, although he had to strain to remember it now, had went something like this:

"Serius, I've been running low on spell books lately."

"And?" Serius' voice had changed immensely after he undertook his transformation; it was now lighter, flatter, and scratchier.

"Well, I, uh, I've…"

"Just leave it, Harry!" Sirius slammed his paw down on the table, which, in the past, would have made a great deal of noise, between his bony knuckles and the hard wood. However, he now could make barely a squeak come out of that table. He continued, "I mean, just let it go," in softer tones.

'But Serius, you don't understand, I-"

"You what?"

"You… I.."

"You _nothing_ Harry." Serius had then yawned and stretched, and jumped up to a higher place; Harry couldn't remember exactly where. "don't you see? This stress has gotten to your head; and I'm to blame, I know, and you didn't ask for me to come here." His fur prickling, Serius adopted a sort – of – guilty expression. "Problem is… I can't go back."

"I don't want you to go back. And I need those spells."

"Lets stop arguing Harry; this is getting nowhere. Now go relax, and I'm sure you'll be back in your right mind after an hour or two of rest."

"B-but-"

"No. I won't hear any of it."

After a pregnant pause, Serius hopped off his perch and went over to Harry. Still silent, he rubbed his side against Harry's leg, bowing his head, as if to effect a pose of gratitude.

The two stood, as if poised in a statue, realizing how much they still had to do, if they were going to get the revenge they knew they deserved. However even now, in this moment of peace and thought, Harry's heart was hammering; and not just from guilt, but from anxiety.

Which brings us to the next line of inquisition ; )

Two months earlier

_The room was dark. Harry sat there, fidgeting, and Hermoine sat next to him, counting the freckles on her arm._

_ "So its really over, isn't it – the hunt for the prophecy and all?" Hermoine, who dared to break the silence, glanced up at him nervously. "And… well, the others too, I guess." She laughed ruefully. "Professor Umbridge is long gone now!"_

_ The two were sitting in the dim, dusty green room of the Minister of Magic's main office. Trying to make small talk – or at least, a one – sided conversation. For Harry's benefit._

_ Harry stared out the window. He blinked furiously, with the excuse of "allergies" (pitiful, I know), and then fidgeted some more. He checked his watch; nice, smooth brown leather, complete with sterling silver buckles, and a quartz engraving on the back: _To Harry, with much respect, from Dumbledore.

_ Rolex, of course; it seemed that many people thought that the more extravagant a gift was, the faster it would be to heal your heart._

_ Ruefully, Harry returned Hermoine's woefully quiet comment with a long, pensive, and somewhat creepish and chillyish gaze._

_ Hermione just couldn't help herself. "What? Who died, why so glum?" She said, and then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, hard; so hard it would probably leave a big, black bruise later. Harry didn't care. Her rude and totally forgetful sentence hadn't effected him in the least; nothing could. After the death of his godfather, he had been an impenetrable, and in some cases intolerable, wall._

_ "Potter? Harry Potter?" The shrewd, sharp voice of a clerk was heard, piercing the delicate film of grief that had settled over Harry's eyes, opening them to the light._

_ "Yes."_

_ "Come right along, will you? It's the first door on the left. Oh, you look like a nice one, oh my my! All well groomed and ready to see…" As soon as she got a better look at Harry's sullen, set face, her voice vamished into midair, disappearing, as if behind a thick veil. Harry couldn't help but notice the similarity; he blinked furiously again._

_ "Allergies," he muttered._

_ They reached the hallway. The clerk took a key fob out of her pocket, and stuck a bronze key in the door. A few steps later they arrived at a tall oak door, greater than the others in both height and majesty; ornate in all its holdings, the polished wood seemed to ooze power, just like its owner. Harry was about to hesitate, but thought better of it; he would not show weakness here, in the minister's office. He could wait, and break down later. When the clerk caught sight of his bony wrist, with its jutting peaks and points, she didn't even flinch, as the minister would; she dealt with the Magical Murder Authorities, and probably saw famished, desperate people who were long ago destroyed by sorrow almost every day._

_ Harry didn't hear the door click, and he didn't even register the minister at first, as he walked in the room. He sat down on autopilot, picked up his cup of tea and sipped it automatically, and hoped for his body to grant him with enough energy to answer whatever ridiculous questions the minister threw at him._

_ "Hello, Harry, my old friend!" The minister probably had no recollection of how callous he had been throughout the year, Harry thought with bitterness. He tried not to let that bitterness reflect in his voice however, and said in a monotone, "and you, Minister. I hope you're well."_

_ "Well, I can see you're not…" The minister began what appeared to be the prelude to a long and robust pep talk about friends always being there for you, yada yada yada, and then thought better of it. He leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers. Harry watched the cars outside the window go by, as if challenging the minister to say something interesting; and seconds later, he did._

_ "Look, Harry." He began by using a soft, pleasant tone. Harry had heard this before, and he was tired of it. The old man wanted something from him; well, he might just have to take "no" for an answer, for the first time in his life. A hint of color crept into Harry's cheeks, as he thought of this idea, which unfortunately seemed to encourage the minister enough to go on._

_ "I know this is asking a lot of you, and I know how much you have suffered over the past few weeks." He gestured to a cluster of pictures hanging on the back wall. "Believe me, I know how you feel. My little girl Molly – she's the one in these pictures, yes, - died when she was just nine, leaving me completely alone. My wife abandoned me a few years before, you see," he said ruefully._

_ Harry thought that this must be a big deal, whatever the minister wanted, because he was putting so much personal information out there. He might have sneered, but for the moment he was transfixed. He looked at the photos._

_ "She looks so… Young!" He whispered, as if in a trance. "So alive!" He turned back to the minister. "How did she die?"_

_ "That's a long story, and probably not worth telling now. What I need right now is your help Harry. Now please, please listen to me," the soft tone was gone now. The minister's voice was that of a desperate man trying to make a bargain. _

_ "Why should I help you?"_

_ "Ah, I knew you would ask that shortly. Now here, look at this. Read this chapter, of the book in front of me."_

_ There were several books on the table, and Harry realized they were all the same. Or all had the same message, at least. He read out loud at first, and then silently, his lips moving slightly but ideas going off in his head like lightning. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt a spark of life rise in his chest._

_ "Do you mean to say…"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "But it can't really… I mean, it can't all be –" Hi didn't dare to hope – "free? You doing this for me, for nothing?"_

_ "No, no, I'm afraid that's not it."_

_ "Oh." Harry's chest deflated. They were probably ask him something totally wacked out now, something like… Like…_

_ "However I doubt you'll object much to the requirements I have for you._

_ "What?" Harry looked up from his lap. His eyes had gone dead again; the minister was toying with him. He was sick of it._

_ "Well, the first requirement is that you find Belatrix Lestrange. The second is that you bring her to me alive, for questioning. And the third is that you do so in a way that will not attract any muggle media attention._

_ "Really?"_

_ "None at all. No cameras, no nothing."_

_ "No, not that, just… really?"_

_ "The minister seemed to finally understand. _

_ "Yes." He then hesitated, as if afraid of something. Harry caught it._

_ "What's the matter?" He said._

_ "Its not permanent. Not at all."_

_ But at the moment this didn't bother Harry at all. "I'll meet you tonight," he said. He barely heard Hermione or Ron or anyone else the rest of the day, his ears were ringing with the words in the pages the minister had shown him. _Rehabilitating Magic_, it was called – he had never heard of something so powerful! It was so good._

As Harry stood there holding Serius, racking his brain for the answer to the question of time, he realized that it was indeed too good to be true.


	10. Chapter 10

10

By the time Belatrix Lestrange had awoken from her deep, uneventful sleep on the New Britain Public Bus, she was shocked to find out that it was already nine o'clock in the morning. Also, it was a Tuesday.

Both of these things pointed toward the fact that throughout her large adventure of being captured and escaping again, Belatrix had both forgotten to keep track of the passing days, and her internal clock had (due to a very long trek through the city with Hermes/Serius and Harry Potter) been completely disrupted.

Which meant in the long term that her plan to _teach her captors a lesson_ would be foiled unless she bought an alarm clock.

Just the thought of walking into one of those old, cold and moldy English muggle stores made Belatrix cringe. Why, she hadn't visited one of those things in years! However she would need to get her timing exactly right on this one.

And so after failing to pay the driver of the bus on her way out the door, hurrying into a back street to check her reflection in a grimy pub window (she couldn't be seen to the commoners as looking _ghastly_, could she?) and stopping at a deli to bully the meat carver into giving her a sandwhich, Belatrix was off to the races.

She looked around as she walked; up, down, in the windows and doors, at the people and buildings. She hadn't gotten in a good look at the city yet. She needed to navigate, and she needed to know what the locals knew, and, most importantly, where the most discreet places to "hang out" (escape) were. To do this, she would have to (ghasp) be friendly with the masses.

"'ello there!"

Belatrix jumped, her fighting instincts kicking into gear. She turned around to realize that the person who had addressed her was only a rather large,, youngish and normal – looking man calling to her from the window of a grocery store. Putting a hand over her chest as if to calm her still – pounding heart, Belatrix scrambled to come up with a friendly, normal façade. This was her chance to get in the know, so to speak.

"Hi!" She decided to play it cool; as in, girly and hyper, and not necessarily that intelligent. It was the easiest way to make a friend, she thought; and even if her hairdo didn't exactly _go_ with the persona, it would have to do.

"You look a little lost," the guy straightened his shirt and adopted a relaxed expression. Did he actually find her _attractive_? Belatrix could totally use this to her advantage.

"I was wondering if I could help, you know, get you acquainted –" he gestured around the street broadly. "After all, I know this place better than anyone!" He gave a deep, hearty chuckle.

Despite her calmish exterior, Belatrix was hyperventilating; she knew that if she got this wrong, she was in deep trouble. And to her, a preppy – type act did not come easily. She took a breath, trying not to make it very obvious, and continued.

"Oh, well, that would be really nice." Belatrix forced heat to come to her cheeks; she tried to blush, and act flirtatious, while inside she cringed. "I'm Bella." She stuck out her hand. "I'm from New York – I'm here for college. I just came a few nights ago."

The guy returned her gesture; his handshake was firm, and a bit clammy, as if he had just been working with them, which he probably had been.

"Bella. Nice to meet you. I'm Jose."

Belatrix smiled to herself, and let Jose lead her into the store, where he said he would get her a map and more directions to the nearest subway. There, she planned to reel him in, and later she could get him to show her the lesser – known hangout spots.

His gaze said it all; _Very nice to meet you _very_ nice indeed._

Two hours later

Belatrix was lying facedown on a narrow, must – smelling white bed at the Condor North hotel in east New Britain. Her window was wide open; her bag and notebook, which was leather – bound and expensive like a writer's diary but contained more spells than any other book, lay by the table, on the deep – set window sill. The room was nice; Jose had said that he'd pay for half, for a night, even though she'd told him not to. Which of course, gave him the manly incentive to do so anyway.

Across the street was the grocery store where he worked. It had gone well; Belatrix found that once she got into acting mode her lies came out more smoothly and surely than she thought they would. The only bad afterthought was that she might have come on a little _too_ strongly… Although she'd tried, albeit subtly, to shake Jose off after he gave her the map and room key, he'd made her promise to meet him at the hotel's bar for supper, where they could "get a bit more acquainted with one another" – code for, he would try to get in with her.

Now how on earth was she supposed to get out of this?

It wasn't like dinner with Jose was even an option! He was a muggle, and she had better things to do. Honestly, Belatrix thought, all she'd needed was to get to know the _town_, and not some random brit she didn't _want_ to know. Nonetheless not showing up to dinner, and without a previous call, would send off a warning signal; and with her luck, that could end up with him trying to track her down.

Seriously – the last thing Belatrix needed was a bunch of bloodthirsty anti – deatheaters _and_ a confused and in – the – dark guy on her tail! _God_!

Once finished with her personal rant, Belatrix rolled over and checked the time. As per earlier in the day she was about forty minutes off; it was seven o'clock and she wasn't even hungry. Actually, her stomach was twisted with anger, frustration, and….. _Guilt_?

Wait… Did she just say that, really?

Clearly Belatrix's feelings were just due to the stress that the past few weeks had brought on. Clearly she just needed to take things easy, and come up with a revenge plan that involved more thinking and less doing. Anyhow, she was good at that.

Belatrix got up and straightened out her shirt. She went into the small, public bathroom down the hall, being careful to stash her key in her bottomless bag. She washed her face, put her hair back, and looked in the mirror. When she caught sight of herself for the first time – in a clear, unmarred surface – for several days. Belatrix cringed.

She looked like a freaking _mess_!

Belatrix eyed herself in a horrified way, noting her frizzy hair, her sallow, crusty skin, and her watery eyes. How was at that the Jose guy thought she was attractive right now? She wasn't, she looked awful.

Belatrix walked hurriedly back to her room, now self – conscious, wanting no one to see her face. Once safely inside she thanked the person she hadn't prayed to for a decade that the door could lock and that she'd taken Harry's wand.

So at last, several charms and a bit of makeup later, Belatrix Lestrange had adopted a look of preppy beauty; she didn't necessarily feel the best, but that was alright; she just needed to make up a far fetched excuse and head off, like any other college girl, to spend a night on the town. Presently the bell rang and she opened the door; Jose stood there in his work clothes. As Belatrix winced – he hadn't even bothered to wear something that didn't smell like meat? – he smiled and told her that their table was waiting. And then, it happened.

Belatrix felt as if the room was spinning around her; there was an all too familiar metallic taste in her throat, which felt very thick. Instinctively she keeled over on the floor and tugged her short skirt behind her, so as not to stain it; any girl would have done the same. Moments later, and before she even knew what was happening, her breakfast, which was all she'd eaten that day, came up on the floor looking slightly mushier than before.

As she and Jose both gasped, and he ran to get towels, she couldn't help but think that at least she wouldn't need to think of an excuse to "stay at the hotel".


	11. Chapter 11

Not that Harry Potter wasn't glad to be alive, or anything, but he often felt that things should be going his way a bit more easily than they really did.

Look at Ron, for instance, he thought as he sat at his desk, typing on a Macbook Pro that Tonks had gotten him for his fourteenth birthday. Ron was so carefree, so naïve – and he had never lost someone he truly loved, never been hurt, and never felt like someone was out to come after him. Harry really, truly wasn't a mean person; he knew it, and had been always confident of the fact, even in times when he doubted anything else; and he did not want to sound contemptuous in any way. But sometimes it was just so hard _not to_, that he would dare to indulge himself in that one spark of daydreaming in which he had a family, the perfect family, and all the things in his life presently were wiped out of his mind as if they had been written there in expo marker, not memory.

Take now for instance, he thought as he typed away at the search engine: wwwr (world wide wizardry references). While his friends had accepted the death of his own only family member with much sadness, they were peacefully aware that nothing they could or would do would help the matter, and so they just did nothing. Whereas Harry was so desperate, so needy, so _weak_ (he dreaded the thought, and did not even know if it was true), that he would take uncommon and illegal means to bring that one family member back.

And look what had happened.

SO here he was a day later, and having thought his memory over through and through, until it was so worn he could not distinguish one detail from another, Harry had arrived at an unclear and rather untried conclusion; he would once again contact the ministry, demand the book from which the spell to "reserect" Sirius had been discovered, and comb through it. He would do so until he had a reversing charm, a potion, or something – anything – that could prolong Sirius' stay. Not too long at all really; just so that he could have time to think, and find a real conclusion. Which given his already rotten luck, would not be easy to do.

Not to say it couldn't be done; in fact, in the past twenty four hours, Harry had been able to contact the ministry, which had been obliged to send him the book, on the condition that he would continue to try to exterminate Belatrix Lestrange (as Harry had explained to them, he had been "just so _close_!"), and then he had found and assembled the proper potion. Presently it was brewing in the bathroom (Harry couldn't help but feel a little bit nostalgic when he put it in there) which explained the putrid odor which he had not been able to hide from Serius, and had instead comprised a feeble excuse on the matter. Anyhow, now that the potion was in the making, that was one thing he could check off from his list of things to do.

And so now it was time to get to hunting; which was why he had been on the keyboard for more than half the day so far. Harry had by lunchtime combed halfway through the search engine, looking for wizard – coded clues as to where Belatrix might be, and in what condition she was in. Any leads he found, he sent directly to Sirius' interface; the cat knew how to type ("even without apposable thumbs," he had explained, "these old paws are perfectly effective!").

AN hour passed; then a half. Harry's eyes glazed over, as he got used to the same information again, and again, and again. By now he was only doing the search for kicks; and then, just when his eyelids had grown heavy enough to shut, he found something that shocked him into jolting awake; his chair rattled as he spun two times around, looking almost comically shocked.

He was looking almost at the bottom of the search; scraping the barrel. The information no one ever, ever found. Unless they were looking for an update, a code, something dark… like a deatheater would.

Which was why Harry knew that whatever he had just found, it was not for his own eyes to see, and so it must be useful.

Fingers quaking, Harry clenched the mouse; his palms sweating slightly, almost sliding off the smooth metal. It was ridiculous, he knew, but with a title like "_News of New Britain: strange Psychotic Woman at Condor North Hotel discovered with Strange and rare Illness: Then Attacks Room Guest and Flees Scene of Crime." _Something unusual must be going on. And there was only one person in the vicinity that would be insane enough to go through that particular sequence of action: Belatrix Lestrange.

And it looked like the tables were finally getting turned _against_ her favor.

Harry gave his first familiar, timid half – smile in what felt like, and was, far too many months.


	12. Chapter 12

How had she wound up in here?

The room reminded Belatrix strangely, and unkindly, of the small cell she had been forced into and made a break from in the beginning of her rather unfortunate adventure. Well, if she escaped here, she thought, at least it might look good in her resume.

Case in point, she was situated on a long, green air – mattress like bed in the middle of a shared room with a muttering and probably delusional old woman, and an obvious psychopath who was leering at her and the woman with a most unpleasant light in his eyes. Of course it was Belatrix's own light – the light of a murdered – but she dared not note that herself, for the look was most unpleasant when it was focused on anyone but her _victims_. Anyways the hospital, by name of Cambridge Branch Intensive Care Facility for the Mentally Unstable.

Before today, Belatrix hadn't known that there was such a thing, and hated the fact that it was put in such very _polite _terms. Anyhow it was locked, bolted, storm – glassed, screening tested, and video – camera'd; in fact, whoever had made the place had really pulled out all the stops!

Except in the comfort department, that is, Belatrix thought as she pulled listlessly at a thread poking from under the single – coil spring in her mattress. Extremely poor quality.

She had of course tried to come up with a solution; at first it was begging and pleading, and turning on her English charm, all of which the guards seemed baffled by and had, if anything, secured her position in the psych ward. After that it was sneaking access to the computer room via a guard with too – big pant pockets for his own good, to look for a set of "the rules" on the Wizard Web.

"The rules" were, of course, the set of honor codes that any witch, evil or otherwise, must abide by; honestly, even Voldemort himself, with all his talent for causing muggle distress, didn't want anyone knowing anything about the magical world besides wizards themselves. And every day when Belatrix searched, no matter how many times she tried and ordered the ministry and even the Deatheater Organization to take down the "no magic outside magical grounds" rule – under a false address and stolen number, of course – no one replied. It was infuriating, and more degrading than anything else.

Today, her second day of captivity, Belatrix had tried t convince the guradds and officials that she was not _sick_, did not need to be in a freaking _hospital_, and needed to get out in order to see "her poor son Jimmy's graduation from kindergarden" (she'd lied through her teeth; but really, times were getting a little desparate!). The guards had just brushed her off, like some mental patient; which she was, in fact, currently.

While the psycho babbled, the psychopath glared, and the heating vent hummed and murmered uselessly like a fly in the nearby distance, Belatrix found her eyes drooping. Her lids had suddenly grown heavy – was it stress, or just boredom? – and she felt a sudden yawn coming on. There was a slight tingle in her toes.

And all of a sudden, the monitor started to beep.

It wasn't like she'd meant for it to happen, far from that; but why waste a chance, when these days, she was scrambling for every crumb of the cookie she could get? Almost immediately Belatrix's mind leapt into action; which, she realized seconds later, was even more incentive for her to stay as she was. Now struggling to reclose her eyes, Belatrix called on years of deatheater practice to slow her pulse and heartbeat.

_In one two three, out… one… two… three._

_ In one two three, out… one… two… three._

A door opened. Then another. One or two nurses came in, and the guard muttered something into his walkie – talkie. All at once, a faster pace of action began to take place. Belatrix listened intently, with some kind of sick, familiar excitement growing in her. She had missed the hunt and the chase; the thrill of a battle, or some form of action. And even if she was presently the victim… Well that could soon be changed, couldn't it?

A monitor was replaced, and then three were removed. A tube was tugging at her nostrils; Belatrix was about to edge it away, but resisted the urge. She was supposed to be unconscious; or at least, partly. Her blood pressure was becoming lower by the second; thanks to one – on – one, unique crash courses on body – temp. control from the Dark Lord, she was an expert. And the farther she dipped, the more concentration it took; Belatrix knew that she had to be more and more careful. Because with every lower number, she was closer to heart failure.

And there was no magic to save her path now.

There were a few seconds where Belatrix's own breath was caught in her throat and her heart sped, for a fraction of a second, as she became anxious about her own safety. But then it started to work; Belatrix felt her mattress moving, and through a cracked – open eyelid, she could see the floor below her. She'd noticed on her way in that there were two floor patterns; the cheap, laminate "wood" in the rooms, and the kiddy – colored pepto bismol pink and light green tiles of the hallway. She saw the change coming up; there were two thing to focus on now, her blood pressure and the door. She had to keep the numbers low, and keep the nurse on their toes, anxious, unaware of any movement in her arms…

Slowly, Belatrix turned her face toward the wall. When it was safe, she opened her eyes; saw the monitor gleaming on its tower beside her, on that smooth plastic pedestal. Like lightning – there was no time now for arm – bracing or planning – her hand shot out from beneath the coverlet. The nurses didn't notice it over the beep of the cardio – tracker, and the bustle in the nearby hall.

The door was about to open… And her timing was spot on.

Belatrix gave the plug on the monitor a hearty yank, watching with her muscles taut as it came teetering, in slo – mo, off the edge of the stand. Into her hands.

Those poor nurses didn't even see what was coming for them.

One was out, then the other. She might not look like it, but beneath Belatrix's petite frame were muscles of iron. Her grip around the dead machine tightened, her blow was more accurate with every second. Her body was cold, her mind was in action – mode; her objective was clear. It was nerve wracking, and for the first time in a long time Belatrix was confident; of herself, that is.

Because once again she was flying down the hallway, brandishing the monitor, screaming like a banshee and pummeling every person who dared stare. She was officially on the run.

Not that this was her first time, of course.


	13. Chapter 13

Rock Bottom

At nearly twelve O'clock in the night (erm, morning?), the streets of Cambridge (or wherever she was) were perfectly empty. A lone light flickered on the street; all the rest had petered out a while ago. Belatrix sighed dramatically and thought that the atmosphere, with its majestic curls of fog and frigid rain, pelting the dress she'd worn and that still had barf on it, like subzero acid. And it was like acid – the whole place stunk of skink and garbage, and it didn't take a local to know these were the lowest of the low; the backstreets.

Aw, hell… Since when had Belatrix Lestrange, the one and only cold – blooded lady deatheater, been spotted in the backstreets of freaking _Cambridge_? If the wizard press saw this, they were going to have a field day. Especially that Reeta Skeeter freak.

Focus, focus, focus. To quell her drenched, shivering arms' stupid jumpiness, Belatrix pinched her wrists, hoping that she could draw a bit of energy from the slight pain. She couldn't have been more wrong.

It had been about twenty hours (and counting) since she'd eaten. Belatrix almost collapsed at a sudden gust of wind, and was moments later warned of its cause when a huge double – decker bus screeched around the corner and spattered her raw legs with mud. That was when, regardless of her world – famous deatheater composure, Belatrix snapped.

"BITCH!" She screamed at the old bus driver. She realized when he turned toward her and slowed down, much to the chagrin of his few passengers, that it was a man, and she didn't care at all. Instead, Belatrix barreled on, going into one of her rare but brutally scathing rants, which usually left either tears or dead bodies in their wakes.

"Stop, why don't you just friggin' STOP! You've got no passengers, you hear me, you big ol' WORMBAG?" Vaguely aware that she was swaying and slurring, and that almost every passerby thought she was some drunk waif, Belatrix drove her argument forward. One – sidedly, of course. The Bus driver didn't have the decency to answer her.

"You heard me, you RUGRAT! You worthless, broke little SCUMBAG! You're trash all of you, yeah, you're TRASH! That's right, walk away. That's right, you're so afraid that you-"

All of a sudden, the ground caved in under her.

For a moment Belatrix thought she was flying, and then she hit the ground. And then she thought she was sinking. And then she thought she was dreaming.

"Heheh…" The bus driver gave a low chuckle and the passengers, who were either muttering disgustedly or hadn't heard a bit of the transaction, were all leaning out the window to stare at her. Belatrix had a vague sensation of walls closing around her, and then realized that it was her own eyes betraying her with their black, sparkling dots and lines. Her line of sight blurred and Belatrix tried to get up in vain, stumbled, and roled over the gutter. It was all she could do to keep her feet from sinking into the brown gunk at the bottoms of the metal grids while she struggled upright, and the remains of her hem got torn in the process.

"You're nothing, little girl… Nothing…"

The driver's words echoed in Belatrix's head as she leaned against a wooden pole to steady herself, and the bus drove around the curb.

"Nothing… Nothing… Nothing…"

In a second she had collapsed on the grates, feeling cold wetness soak into her legs with some amount of pleasure, as if she were sort of getting what she deserved.


	14. Chapter 14

The plot thickens

Belatrix awoke with a start, wondering why her butt was wet. As the night's events came rushing back to her she wanted desparately to erase it all, for her real present life to be normal (by her standards), holding meetings with the deatheaters and the Dark Lord all day. However, her attention was caught by a note stuck in the barely – existent hem of her dress. It read:

_B-_

_We have an ultimatum._

_Proof of your treachery has been found in a wizard lab in the Ministry. However this proof is not freely viewed, and has limited access. We can erase it cleanly for you, along with the widespread knowledge of your present wereabouts (we have people everywhere), if you can comply to our rules._

_For safety reasons, to further glean information as to how you can better your position with the magical world, meet us in the clearing due east of Gobb's Hollow in the Cambridge Campus Woods (just ask a student). Seven o'clock at night, and we will know if you've brought backup._

_Trust us._

_If you don't, then be aware that much, much more than your own life is in our hands._

For several full minutes Belatrix sat, rocking slightly back and forth, as she wondered and mulled over the possibilities.

The letter could be fake; if it was from that wrech Harry, well… He probably would be trying to scare her. If it was the ministry themselves, than she was smart enough to run away easily. However…

There seemed to be a lot that Belatrix thought she knew, but didn't, today.

As she looked around, aware that her hollow eyes must appear like those of a homeless alcoholic or drug – user, Belatrix felt her cheeks heat up with a very rare, slight blush of shame and anger.

It took all her willpower not to scream, but for the sake of herself and whatever else her possible hunters had in store, she looked around for the closest college bar.

Before reminding herself that first, it was necessary to look presentable; and hopefully to not barf on someone's carpet.


End file.
